


These Happy, Sunny Days

by campitor



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Bathing/Washing, Cannibalism, First Time, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Raider Hannibal, Skinny Dipping, Vaultie Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campitor/pseuds/campitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving Vault 107 had seemed like a good idea at the time, but that was before Will got caught up in the antics of a cannibalistic band of raiders. The gutted ruins of Baltimore call; the desert cries blood. </p><p>Welcome home.</p><p>An AU set in the Fallout universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I.

The desert was a grand thing, a swallowing thing, a sea of barren bones and atomic particles. In the age of desolation, all of life and death and the stages in between revolved around the desert, bathed in the desert, bled and wept in the desert. The Wasteland was alive, and it hummed a haunting tune. It echoed with the screams of those who had watched the bright flashes of the atomic bombs falling, bursting, devouring.

Will’s Geiger counter clicked and sang as he walked, trilling a tune of death and mutation, almost cheery. The heat of the sun was bearing down on the back of his neck and a vicious, dry wind was snarling around him, tangling in his legs and plastering his curls to his sweaty forehead; the wasteland had sharp teeth and was baring them in earnest at the young man, who was still a virgin to such ruggedness. Will was not used to the elements, nor to the sun; he wasn’t used to anything but the artificial cold of the Vault, though that was far behind him now, lost in the grinding of the metal door and a last whiff of ozone. Strange, he thought, to feel the wind on his face after so long without it. Stranger still to have to squint to keep the blowing sand from blinding him as he walked, to feel so attacked by the elements he had daydreamed of. He almost missed the stale air conditioning of his old home.

Will supposed that he had always known that he would one day leave the Vault. Never had it seemed like a permanent home; Vault 107 was the proverbial nest, an incubator, a haven that had swiftly grown into a prison. For years he had spent his days pacing the chrome hallways of the protective labyrinth, always doing his part, rarely doing more. He read every book that was brought to him, traced his pale fingers along the creases and folds in the pages, buried his nose in the paper to see if it held any whiff of the outside. All it took was one faint trace of the fresh, dry air of the Wasteland for him to close his eyes, sink into images of golden sand, of cerulean skies and ramshackle towns…he could think of a new fate for himself there if he tried very hard, he could think of a world where the light was not fluorescent, where the air was not recycled. 

His father’s death had changed something in him. He was not content to daydream anymore; slowly, Will began to consider how he might see the surface, what supplies he would need to survive. It was a quiet change, though not unheard. Some of the men in the Vault who had been close to his father watched as his son went to the shooting range day after day, how he would trail after Jonah, a trader who had seen the surface more than enough times for his sixty years. The men who he had played poker and rummy with watched as his boy withdrew into himself, and they had watched too as he walked away from the Vault, watched until he became small. The senior Graham wouldn’t have liked what his son had decided, but he wouldn’t have said anything; that was what Jonah had said as Will melted into the shimmering sand, and the rest of the men found themselves agreeing. 

He had walked 50 miles from the Vault according to his Pip-boy, and 20 more still yawned between him and Baltimore. Jonah had warned him that it would take him days; a week, maybe, if he was slow or encountered any trouble. He hadn’t warned him that he might not make it, though the words had sat heavy on his tongue. The quiet old gunman had watched Will vanish into the desert, an ill-camouflaged blotch of blue and yellow with only a plasma rifle to defend himself, and he had whispered a prayer under his breath. _God, protect this boy, take him into your pastures, make it quick, make it a landmine, don’t let the Deathclaws chew his bones clean._

Thus far Will hadn’t encountered trouble, and he was thankful for it; the gun on his back sat unused and unthought of. Grazing Bighorners had cast their inky eyes on him, snorts of displeasure flaring their nostrils, but the beasts merely herded their young to the center of their groups, suspicious but not hostile. The first day after he left the Vault, a pair of dueling molerats had crossed his path, their giant buck-teeth bared in irritation. When they broke apart for a moment to sneer at the shadow above them, they had seemed as shocked to see him as he had been to see them. Far, far away he had seen the hulking forms of more sinister beasts; Jonah had warned him of colossal monsters, abominations with talons and teeth and rage. These he didn’t dwell on, these he barely looked at. His imagination filled in the gaps and added more points.

Occasionally the figures of other humans would dot the horizon. As he watched the caravans move, Will would feel great pangs of something unnamable in his chest, something akin to loneliness yet not as passionate. He wasn’t homesick—he had few friends in the Vault—but he supposed that he missed the sense of community that he had left. Will hadn’t understood that soothing kiss of familiarity before. 

Glancing at his Pip-boy again, he clicked a few buttons and zoomed the map out so that Baltimore blipped in green at the corner of the display. Jonah had told him that this was his best shot at building a new life. Civilization was crawling back into the city, segregated currently into small shanty-towns, but growing, the man had reassured him. Slowly the innovative wastelanders were taking advantage of the city’s old infrastructure. “You’ve got a good head,” Jonah had said as he had rolled up his map. “You’re good with machines. They’ll want you on board.” 

If that didn’t work out, the gunman had said, there were plenty of ranches around the area trying to coax food from the irradiated soil. Will might have to get his hands dirty, he had said. He told Will about the livestock the farmers kept, colossal Bighorners and two-headed Brahmin. The former were ornery and vile, while the second teetered the line of sweet and sour, their soft doe-eyes a strange juxtaposition to their hooked horns.

And, well, if farming didn’t work out, Jonah said, he could find work elsewhere, probably. “Just don’t get caught up in trouble,” he had warned, and the weight of the words had caused Will to shiver. 

Will hoped that Baltimore would work out, that they’d need people to tinker with engines and circuit boards. Maybe they’d need someone to teach their kids and workers calculus and algebra so that they too could become the engineers and scientists needed to rebuild the wasteland. The thought of doing work that might bring about some good was what kept him going when his feet were wailing in pain after a long day of walking. Everything in the Vault had felt like a closed system; any improvements that they made there echoed. Here, change might diffuse like ink in water. Out here in this stifling heat, it might melt into something meaningful. 

His stomach rumbled suddenly, a sharp pang of hunger giving him pause. Will glanced at his Pip-boy to check how long he had been walking, remembering now that he had skipped breakfast in order to eke as much travel time out of the cooler morning hours as he could. It was nearing noon now and the sun hung heavy above him. Glancing around, he saw the lip of a small cut out of the earth a little ways away that would offer some relief from the sun. No use to continue now and drop dead from heat stroke later.

As Will tried to find the best way down the hill, he did not know that he was being watched by a pair of keen eyes, eyes that had no problem picking the blue and yellow stain of him out from the rest of the terrain. Standing stock-still, the tracker watched as the vault-dweller skittered down the hill and slung his bag off, practically diving into the cool shadow that the bluff cast. Easy prey, thought Matthew, resting his Brahmin-bone club on his shoulder. _Interesting_ prey—he wondered what his leader would think of eating a Vaultie. _107_ was stamped on the stranger’s back; Matthew hadn’t heard of that one. He wondered if the meat would be different, if it would be stale or tender. 

Creeping slowly now he began to make his own way down the hill, the mottled browns of his clothing camouflaging him against the sand and rocks. It would be easy to sneak up on his kid; the Vaulties were only ever warned about the dangerous animals that might eat them, never the people. Hell, he could probably walk right up to the kid and he wouldn’t even jump. Matthew smiled to himself and watched as the stranger pulled a can from his bag and yanked the pull-tab top off. Too easy.

The stranger ate his meal cold, flipping through notes on his Pip-boy as he licked his spoon clean. Matthew paused to watch him for a moment, intrigued by the device on his wrist. It was in the best condition that he’d ever seen, clean and not cracked, and again he smiled to himself. This kid really was straight from the underground. His gun was nice too, a B.O.S.-style energy weapon. They could sell that, he thought, or give it to one of the more skilled gunsmen of their group. The boss would get a kick out of him, that’s for sure. 

…might even spare him, if he found him interesting enough. Matthew blinked at that thought. His leader was not a merciful man, though he was easily bored. The scout thought of Dimmond, the man frantically reciting filthy poetry as the others howled with laughter, the corner of their leader’s lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. A knife had been brought out when Dimmond had exhausted his words. Their leader had raised his hand, shaking his head. “It seems we have a court jester,” he had said wryly, and Dimmond’s face had gotten stuck between fear and relief. 

What use was a Vaultie, though? They were a coddled lot. Matthew supposed that his stories might be enough to sate their leader for a few days, maybe a few weeks. He huffed and creeped a bit closer to the man, his fingers flexing around his club, pulsing in anticipation of the solid crack of it hitting the other’s skull. 

And Will, Will was unaware of the man that was mere yards from him now, padding silently in the sand. He was busy thinking of hot meals as he scraped the last bits of beans from the can, oblivious to the predator slinking up behind him, a predator that did not have a hulking form or brutish nails, merely bad intentions. Matthew waited until he stood, waited until the stranger turned to face him, waited until his pale, sun-barren lips parted in soft surprise.

“What—“

And then the tracker leapt up, raising his club high and bringing it down hard enough for the stranger to stagger and fall, but not hard enough to kill. A groan bubbled from Will’s lips and a trail of blood began to leak down from his wild locks and then—

Darkness.

Matthew, pleased with his work, admired the sprawled form of Will Graham and tucked his club back into its holder. Crouching down, he placed two fingers on Will’s neck, ensuring that his pulse was still fluttering and vibrant, and then shuffled around so that he was crouching by Will’s lolling head. The scout stood and hooked his hands under Will’s arm, lifting his body with a grunt. He adjusted his grip and heaved Will up onto his shoulder, pulling the man’s body around his shoulders so that he held him in a fireman’s carry. It would be a long walk back to camp, he thought with a sigh. As Matthew adjusted his grip, he found himself grateful that the stranger was so small.

As the scout walked, Will’s arms bumped and swayed against his back. The Pip-boy crashed hard into his shoulder and the radio turned on with a growl of static. Matthew jumped and tried to fumble for the Pip-boy buttons but found that he couldn’t quite reach them to silence the device. With another sigh, he trudged up the hill and towards camp, the warble of a long-dead man keeping him company as he walked.

_”I’ve got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Fallout 4 coming up, I had to pay tribute to two of my favorite series of all time. I hope you enjoy this wild ride into the great big Wasteland!


	2. Chapter 2

II

No more than black stains against the irradiated sky, vultures circled above the camp, enchanted by the scent of blood, mesmerized by the rich and salty tang of roasting meat. High in the heavens they squabbled, one dilated eye fixed on the claws and beaks of their feathered companions and the other trained steadily on the tent below them that was bathed in the metallic musk of injury. They were patient birds, stoic birds, the type of creatures that would circle for hours before descending to the sand, talons extended. For long, long minutes they worshipped the scent of blood far below. For long, long minutes they waited for the telltale rush when a life left a body.

The birds circled in vain.

When Will awoke a short while later, it was to the cool press of a wet rag to his head and a gentle tugging as someone cleaned his hair. It was almost pleasant, the damp cloth a soothing contrast against the torrid summer air, and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy it as he chased the wisps of drowsiness from his head and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. A dull ache blanketed his skull. 

His memories were hazy and tinged with static; desperately, his brain scrambling to half-awareness, he thought back to the moment before unconsciousness had swallowed him. He remembered that there had been a man dressed in layers of browns and beiges, a young man with a bag strapped to his back and a club clutched tightly in one hand. Will remembered that he hadn’t seen him coming, hadn’t even heard the slip of his feet on the sand. A brilliant flash of frustration seized in his gut at his own carelessness, a sickening, nauseous feeling that crawled up his throat and sparked tears in his eyes. Stupid, stupid. He knew he was lucky he wasn’t dead.

What had happened between then and now was lost to him, though he was certain that he was no longer in the same place he had started based on the blanket stretched out beneath him and the murmur of people in the distance. If he hadn’t been killed, then where had the hunter taken him? As he was about to crack one eye open to glance at his surroundings, the gentle brush of the wet rag was replaced with a sharp sting that raced across his temple. Will gasped and jumped, his body seizing in surprise, and the stranger’s fingers flew away from his skull.

“Sorry! I didn’t think you were awake.” 

Groaning as the blood rushed to his head, Will scrambled away from the voice as fear burst squawking from his hazy thoughts. The stranger knelt a little bit away, a rag clutched in one hand and a frown plastered on his face. He wore a baggy, plum-colored t-shirt and a pair of loose pants, and his feet were wrapped in linens to protect his soles. The man’s hair sat in a few sweeping curls on his head and was laced in silver streaks, though his face looked young and bright, aged only by the sun. His mouth split into a sheepish smile when Will looked up. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I really thought you were still unconscious. I was hoping to save you the pain when you were awake.”

Shakily, Will exhaled slowly to calm his nerves. “S’fine,” he mumbled, reaching his hands up to rub at the sore spot on his head. 

“No, no, don’t touch.” The stranger waddled over and snatched Will’s hand away from his temple. “You’re going to infect it. I think Matthew hit you a little too hard—you’ve got a nice big bruise and a decent scrape beneath all that hair. May I?” He held up the cloth again. The acrid scent of alcohol assaulted Will’s nose.

Gently, the stranger dabbed the cloth against the cut, murmuring in sympathy when the other winced. “Just a little bit more now, there we go. How are you feeling? Like I said, I think Matthew hit you a little too hard. I think he was excited.”

“I’m…” How was he feeling? His head was foggy enough that the confusion and fear wasn’t settling in quite yet, but now, looking around at this unfamiliar place, he could feel it start to creep in. He was in a tent, and the light was streaming in in dappled blotches through the holes in the canvas. A table covered in bottles and bowls was shoved into one corner, and a crate filled with blankets and cloths into another. Near the entrance sat a pair of chairs, and in the back a sleeping bag was tied into a roll. “Where am I?”

“Our camp,” The other replied, plucking a bottle of whiskey from his side and pouring some onto the bloodied rag. “You’re a few miles outside of Baltimore. You’re a long ways from the vault.” He gestured to Will’s blue jumpsuit. “Hold still just a second more, there’s one more little spot—there.” 

“Baltimore,” Will parroted as the other man stood to put the alcohol back and fetch a roll of gauze. “That’s where I was heading.”

“Well, good!” The stranger laughed, the sound tinged with nerves, the warble of trepidation. “Now you’re that much closer. Oh—where are my manners? I never introduced myself. I’m Anthony.”

“I’m Will Graham. You said this was a camp?”

“It’s a pleasure. Yes, it is. Once I put some gauze on that scrape you can look around outside. Do you remember how you got here?” 

“I remember a man approaching me, and then hitting me with something.” Will frowned as he remembered the sharp crack that resounded from his skull and the blackness that followed. He remembered his things suddenly--lifting his arm, he noted in dismay that his Pip-boy was gone, and his rifle was nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

“Yes, that was Matthew. I apologize for that.”

“What sort of camp is this?” Jonah had mentioned some of the groups setting up fort around the Wasteland. There were some whose names had been spoken with a hint of awe, others whose names had been spat out as if they tasted sour.

He had warned Will that he must be very careful. People’s intentions weren’t so good anymore.

Anthony thought for a moment. “Well, a living camp, I suppose. I guess most people would call us raiders. We’re our own little band—we move around every once in a while, we hunt for our food, we trade for some of it. Sometimes Hannibal and a few others will go into some of the towns. That probably sounds a little strange to you, doesn’t it? I’ve heard that the vaults are like little cities. Well, it’s pretty normal out here. It’s not always very safe to stay in one spot. Everything changes so fast.” Taking a piece of gauze, he moved Will’s hair out of the way as best as he could. The man seemed content to chatter away, and Will was content to listen. “I imagine we might settle down once Hannibal gets a little tired of the whole thing, though. We certainly have the resources to make a little town. We might even be able to join another one, we’ll see. I, for one, would like to have a roof again.” 

Will smiled cordially as the other rambled and lifted a hand to help hold his curls out of the way of Anthony’s work. Nervous butterflies were collecting his gut and squirming into his throat, though he did his best to swallow them down. Anthony blathered on for a few minutes more, throwing about names he didn’t recognize, discussing the relationships within the camp, bits of gossip; the man seemed as nervous as he was, his words tumbling from his mouth. Will’s attention focused back to the talkative mender when he mentioned their leader. 

“You’ll know Hannibal when you see him,” Anthony explained. He was putting the gauze away and wiping his hands on the damp cloth he had used to clean Will’s cut. “He just…he speaks, and this heavy, dripping hush falls over the camp. His face looks like it’s cut from stone. He’s—he’s an interesting man.” Anthony paused and turned to look at Will. A strange and cold smile was playing at his lips, torn between curiosity and fear. “I wonder what he’ll think of you.” 

“Of me?” A cold shiver of fear wound its way through the dips and bumps of Will’s spine. Like the very nerves that made his backbone, dread nosed its way into every cranny it could. 

“Of course. Do you think you’re here by accident? Well, of course you might—how would you know otherwise? No, Will, you were a purposeful target. Hannibal gets a certain _kick_ out of meeting interesting people. And a Vaultie that’s flown fresh from the coop? Now _that’s_ interesting, don’t you think?” 

“No,” said Will, his voice hushed and small now. “I don’t.”

Memories of Jonah now, his weathered face stuck in a frown. _Sure you don’t want another outfit?_ No, no, this is fine. _Come on, let me get you one of my--_

No, this is fine. It’s fine, Jonah, because it’s a ward against homesickness; it smells like home, smells like chemical death and stale air. It looks like the Vault, feels like the Vault, feels like—

He understands why Jonah wanted him to change now. 

_Feels like weakness. Feels like a bullet in your stomach. Feels like people laughing because those Vaulties are a soft lot, aren’t they? Should’ve stayed underground, fucker!_

“Of course you don’t.” Anthony’s voice was small. “I shouldn’t scare you. In fact, I don’t think you have much to be scared of. He might like you. Did you learn anything useful down underground?”

“I’m a mechanic. I can fix things.”

Anthony’s only response was a small smile and an offered hand. Will grasped it and pulled himself up, swaying on his feet as the dizziness spiraled in his head. Somewhere in that constellation of jumbled thoughts was the realization that Anthony was lying. There was no need for him to scare Will, but there was plenty of reason for Will to be scared. He didn’t know this camp. He didn’t know these people. Raiders, Anthony had said. He thought back to the man who clobbered him; he had been a skilled hunter, a trained predator.

Again, Will found himself swallowing fear. 

Together, he and Anthony stepped from the tent and into blinding, brilliant sunlight so strong that Will had to shield his eyes. The sun was singing a funeral song, dying on the horizon. When his eyes had adjusted, Will opened them once more and peered around the humble settlement, a living space of dust and blood.

Rising from the dirt like blisters were a dozen red tents, their cloth coverings worn by use and the assault of flinging dirt and rain as storms howled. Hearths dotted the areas between living spaces, dwarfed by a great pyre a little ways away from the main cluster of homes. The acrid scent of smoking, burning meat was wafting over the camp, for suspended above the licking flames of the fire was a rack of ribs, expertly cut by a keen knife and tended to occasionally by a squat man with a frizz of curls. Other people dotted the camp; Will counted at least ten others, and assumed that others still were within the tents or out patrolling the scrub and dirt of the Wasteland. Some read, others picked at the tough casings of mutated fruits, and one man was making something that looked to Will like the strings of an instrument. When they heard the rustle of the tent flap, they looked up and stared at him and Anthony, their eyes bright with curiosity. 

It was certainly different than the Vault. Will tried to imagine a life here, where he relied only on what an unhospitable landscape could give him. Looking out into the distance, he could only see the rigid skeletons of trees, none of which bore leaves, let alone fruit. He watched a trio of women shuck the pods from seeds around a basket, and he wondered how far they had to travel to find them. 

The man who Will recognized as the one who clubbed him was stretched out on a blanket, a book held in one hand; he stood when he saw the pair exit the tent, a sly smirk twisting his lips. “Earning your keep as a healer now too, Anthony?” he said as he sauntered over. His voice had a strange lilt to it, a slight imperfection that Will couldn’t place. 

“You really did a number on him, Matthew,” Anthony scolded, reaching up to gently part Will’s hair and show Matthew the gauze patch. 

The hunter shrugged. “It’s just a scrape.”

“And a concussion, probably.”

Again, Matthew shrugged; his attention flitted elsewhere, focusing on something in the distance. “It’s not gonna matter.”

 _It’s not gonna matter._ Will watched as Anthony paled beside him. Dread, like a deadbolt, slid home.

Something was not quite right here.

He had to get out of the camp; he didn’t know what these people were planning, and he didn’t care to find out. He could run, he could—he could surprise them all and just burst away from camp, sprint towards the hills…

…as a hunter chased him with a gun gripped in his hands, a hunter whose lungs were not made weak from recycled air. 

There had to be some other way. 

Before Anthony or Will could reply, Matthew’s hand shot up, motioning towards something in the distance. The Vault-dweller turned to see what he was waving at and was surprised by the stoicism of the figure he saw. 

Framed by the ever-growing twilight glow was a man dressed in heavy cloaks and armor, a gun strapped to one shoulder, a machete gripped in one hand. His hair fell onto his forehead in soft, gray wisps and kissed the tanned and weathered skin of his face. His lips were perched in an elegant line; his expression gave away nothing of his emotions, simply fit the man with a mask of power. This, Will thought, must be Hannibal. Not since he had first met the Overseer of his Vault had he felt so dwarfed by another human being. He watched as the people of the camp lifted their faces to glance at their leader, their faces no more telling than his. Will wondered if this was a relationship of fear or respect; power could be borne from either, after all. Did Hannibal’s hand giveth, or did it taketh away?

The silver-haired man slid his machete back into its sheath and approached Matthew; Hannibal did not even spare a glance to the stranger among his ranks. The young hunter seemed to preen under his leader’s attention, his chin lifting proudly as Hannibal reached out and carded a hand through Matthew’s short, dark locks in a gesture that looked almost fatherly to Will. “Good hunting?” he asked him. Hannibal’s voice was tinged with a strange accent, the remnants of some Wasteland dialect. 

“Very good,” Matthew purred. He jerked his chin in Will’s direction. “Found someone that I figured you’d want to see alive.”

“Smart boy.” A smile revealed a jagged row of teeth, and Hannibal pressed his hand to Matthew’s head once more before turning his gaze to Will. 

Never had Will seen such empty eyes, eyes as smooth as glass, eyes the muddy red of dried blood. The only expression that Will could gather from Hannibal’s blank gaze was calm contempt. An involuntary shudder rolled over his frame, and Hannibal’s nostrils flared as if the man could smell his fear. Only then did something flash in those russet eyes, a hunger, a salivating longing. 

“Vault-dweller,” Hannibal breathed, his voice almost a laugh. “Strange that you’re so far from home. There aren’t too many of you in the Wasteland anymore.” 

“You should’ve seen him,” Matthew said. Lizard-like, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Didn’t even notice me coming.”

Hannibal’s lip twitched at that. “They teach you many things down there, Vault-dweller, but none of the things that matter the most.” 

The people of the camp were gathering now, setting down their work and clustering silently behind their leader to watch was what unfolding. They were used to games such as these. Anthony suddenly was gone from his side, and Will saw his curls vanish into the crowd. Alone, he stood before Hannibal. Alone, he gazed out at the many eyes who watched him and shuddered when he saw that they shone with curiosity and mocking spite. 

Hannibal clasped his hands behind his back, standing rigid as a king as he surveyed the boy. His eyes roved over Will’s skinny limbs, and his displeasure was clear by the lines of his lips. “You haven’t been out of the Vault for long. Your skin is still pale, save for the sunburn flushing your cheeks. A week then, maybe? Mere days?” He blinked and inclined his head a fraction. “It would have been quite embarrassing if Matthew had killed you then and there. Deposited in the teeth of the Wasteland, dead within days. How does it make you feel, knowing that your brains could have been bleeding out into the sand if Matthew had not recognized that gaudy atrocity that you are wearing? You may speak.” 

But Will could not. His tongue was tied, for Hannibal’s words had dark implications, held a dark promise; Hannibal’s words hummed with the inevitability of death. Will’s gaze fell to the machete hanging from the leader’s hip. Hannibal’s own eyes followed his, and Will was surprised when the man grabbed his chin and tilted his face up so that he was once again looking at that cold russet stare.

“You are very afraid,” Hannibal commented. Gingerly, he swept his thumb along the line of Will’s jaw. For a moment Will was flooded with the relief as he wondered if he was misinterpreting the man’s words, the man’s stare, the implication of every sentence uttered by him and his charges. Just as Will parted his lips to breathe a soft sigh, Hannibal’s hand snaked from his chin to the back of his neck and suddenly Will was tumbling to the ground, his face striking painfully against the dirt, his body immediately coiling into itself to protect his stomach. A whimpering gasp escaped him before he could snap his mouth shut in embarrassment.

“Good.” The word fell heavy as a stone. “You should be, Vault-dweller.” Will’s eyes followed Hannibal’s boots as the man began to pace back and forth from his head to his toes. “Tell me—what did you expect when you stepped from the chrome womb of the Vault? Adventure? Was it just you who stepped from your metal haven, or did someone come and crack your home open like an egg? Answer me. Speak. You were given a tongue to use, Vault-dweller.” Hannibal crouched, one of his hands snatching Will’s chin again and pulling his head away from where he hid it in his arms. 

“It was just me,” Will replied, his voice quavering at the end. His cheek throbbed from where it had struck against the ground.

“You chose to leave, then. Why?”

It took a few gasping breaths, caught between sobs and whines, for Will to find his voice again. “I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You just _left_ , Vault-dweller? For fun? For heroism?”

Will inhaled deeply to steel his nerves, but only managed to splutter and cough on his own spit. A few chuckles slithered up from the crowd, though Hannibal’s eyes remained steely, boring into his own with a predator’s intensity. Softly, Will offered, “I want to help people.” He wondered if the answer would please the other; deep in his gut, he suspected that it wouldn’t. 

“Noble,” Hannibal laughed, letting Will’s head drop again. “And unfortunate. People out here rarely want help. When they do, they clamber, and they suffocate those who they grab. Oh, the stories I could tell you, Vault-dweller. Stretching across all of the deserts and barren woodlands is nothing more than chaos and blood, and I will do nothing to convince you otherwise. Whoever let you go was a fool.” He chuckled darkly at that and straightened his posture. “Do you know why you’re here? Has anyone informed you of your fate, or has Anthony tied the wool tightly before your eyes?”

 _Do you know why you’re here?_ Will felt a sob creeping up from his chest and swallowed it back down. He realized now why Jonah had looked so somber when he had left, why his face had been stilled in a funeral mask. He swore now that he could hear a soft prayer leaking into the air in Jonah’s gravelly baritone. Will wondered if he too should pray.

Perhaps he should just beg. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he murmured into the meat of his arms, the sound echoic in the cavern that his curled figure made. “But I think that you’re going to kill me.” 

Hannibal’s voice sank sharp claws into his skull. The sound was distorted, sinister and vile. “You’re here, Vault-dweller, because we want to eat you. You said that you want to help people, didn’t you? Well, you will certainly help us.” He moved so that he stood before the boys covered head. “How does it feel, knowing that your death circles above you, patient as a carrion bird? Soon it will descend, and soon you will feel nothing. You must feel how prey-beasts feel. You must feel very small.” 

Will said nothing, though he felt the agony of martyrs. Tears prickled behind his eyes, spilling now onto the sleeve of his Vault-tec jumpsuit. This was not what he had envisioned when he walked away from the vault mere days ago. Fear pulsed so strongly through his blood that his thoughts were beginning to cloud over like glass that had been breathed on; he was becoming a beast of emotion and not logic, a sniveling ball crying into the irradiated dirt. 

“It will be quick,” Hannibal intoned, his hands folding behind his back again. “You have done nothing to wrong me; there is no reason for you to suffer.” The man paused and let the heavy silence hang suspended in the air. The gathered camp stared at the crying boy before them, and some lowered their eyes in sympathy as a seizing shiver wracked his frame. 

A long moment passed before Hannibal spoke again. His words were said slowly, dragged from his tongue to further torment the quivering lump at his feet. “But I wonder what stories _you_ have, Vault-dweller. You may be a virgin to sun and tooth and claw, but that does not mean that you are boring. Weak, perhaps, but not useless. Not entirely.” 

The tone of the words changed; how swiftly Hannibal’s voice changed from something as sharp as knives to something soft, something questioning. Will dared to let hope creep into his belly, yet he could not muster the courage to lift his head. Holding his breath, he listened as Hannibal’s boots crunched on the dirt as the man shifted, and waited anxiously for the next inhalation of breath. 

Again, the silence congealed in the air. Hannibal regarded the felled figure with a cool indifference before snapping his gaze back up to look at Matthew. “I thank you, as always, for your excellent judgement, Matthew. We shall keep him alive, if only for a few days. Perhaps,” Hannibal raised his voice and lifted his head to peer beyond the cluster of people as he sought out a particular set of silver-kissed curls, “He shall sing for his supper as Anthony did before him.” 

A few members of the camp laughed at that. As quickly as they had assembled, they once again trailed off to their respective corners. Matthew smiled warmly at his leader’s praise before wandering back over to the fire, where a jet-haired girl sat polishing a gun. Hannibal and Will were left alone; one cried from relief while the other considered the hunger pains wracking his stomach

“Come now,” the cannibal said after a minute, kneeling so that he could wrap a hand around Will’s arm to pull him up. “There is no use crying over it. Your death is inevitable. Perhaps this death will even be kind. Perhaps, Vault-dweller, it will not come by my hand at all.” Roughly Will was jerked upright, tears and mucus shining on his face. His legs wavered as he stood, and Hannibal steadied him with a firm hand. “Ask Anthony. He merely recited filthy poetry until our sides were sore from laughing. You…you may have potential, Vault-dweller. Though, that is hardly an appropriate title anymore. Tell me your name.”

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Will couldn’t help but wonder if this was some elaborate trick. “My name is Will Graham.” 

“Welcome to the surface, Will Graham. I gave you a far kinder welcome than any raider would. You will sleep in my tent tonight to avoid any…altercations. Are you hungry?” Will swallowed at the words. Not letting go of his arm, Hannibal began to guide him to one of the tents, this one decorated with a set of asymmetrical, sharpened antlers. Night was painting the sky now, and the stars glittered above them. Slowly the heat of the summer day was beginning to leach from the air. “Show me that you are brave, and I might make you one of my own. You have unique skills as a Vaultie. What was your G.O.A.T. result?”

Will’s tongue felt numb when he replied. “Mechanic.” Hannibal merely responded with a grunt and swept the flap of his tent aside, ushering Will into its red-tinged dimness. 

Once inside, Hannibal sat down on his cot and began to undress, pulling his various holsters up over his head and settling them gently beneath his bed, casting Will a knowing look as he did so. He then unlaced his boots and set them aside, and then shrugged off his heavy black cloak, which he folded and placed neatly on a chest at the foot of his cot. Will sat awkwardly at the opposite end of the tent, his legs crossed before him; he felt a little childish like this, and only found the feeling amplified by his fear. As Hannibal began to unbuckle his worn leather armor, Anthony’s head poked through the tent, followed by two plates of food that sat balanced in his hands, forks shoved into their contents. Hurriedly the man brought one over to Hannibal and the other over to Will; the latter frowned when he found that his friend would no longer meet his gaze. Just as Anthony was about to scurry from the tent again, Hannibal stopped him. 

“Say goodnight to Will, Anthony.”

Anthony’s nervous gaze flit over to glance at the Vaultie. “Goodnight, Will.” 

Hannibal smiled and watched the other duck from the tent before turning his attention back to Will. Gesturing to the plate, he asked, “Have you ever had Brahmin? They’re a two-headed species of cow. It’s a plain meat, easy to season. This was from a wild bull that one of the women shot, so it might be a little tough. They’re hardy animals.” 

Hesitantly, Will pulled the plate closer. A trio of steaming ribs lay next to a pile of red-brown beans; a piece of tough-looking bread sat atop it all. He regarded the meat with some suspicion, Hannibal’s words still fresh in his head.

If the leader noticed his apprehension, he said nothing; Hannibal merely waited until Will picked up the fork before he looked at his own plate, picking up one of the ribs between his fingers and almost daintily pulling the meat from the bones. They ate in silence save for the scrape of their forks on the pre-war ceramics.

They regarded each other coolly when they were finished, Will’s eyes wide with fear while Hannibal’s glimmered with curiosity. “Well,” he said after a moment, rising to collect Will’s plate and place it outside of the tent with his own, “Will you sleep on the floor, or would you prefer to join me in bed?”

Will was suddenly glad that he was sunburned enough to hide the blush creep across his face. It was hard to imagine that Hannibal’s offer was anything but polite, but still it grated at him, tying his tongue in a knot. “I-I’ll take the floor.” 

Hannibal simply blinked. “Very well.” 

Will watched as the man stripped down to a pair of shorts and a once-white undershirt and crawled beneath the furs and textiles that covered his cot. “Sleep,” Hannibal said, his lips parting in a contented sigh and his eyes falling shut. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Will didn’t doubt it, though he found himself frozen. Like a rabbit before a fox, he waited until he was certain Hannibal’s breaths had stilled, until he was certain the man could no longer see or sense him before he untangled his legs and laid down on the floor, getting as comfortable as he could on the scratchy textile spread out like a carpet. Sleep took him quickly despite his trepidation, his body exhausted from fear and adrenaline. 

Waking from his feigned slumber, Hannibal stared at the soft rise and fall of Will’s chest, watched as it hitched in the occasional gasp. Rising, he pulled one of the pelts from his bed and carried it over to Will, draping it over his sleeping form. A soft smile crossed his face as a pale hand snaked up to pull the skin tighter around his shoulders.

Something lonely howled outside, unheard by the sleeper, unfeared by the other. The night bled into raven-black ink, and the bellies of fiercer beasts than man gurgled with hunger in the fitful throes of sleep. The Wasteland breathed around them, alive and ravenous, and its exhalations swept over them, blanketing them in the whines of hunger and want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American readers! I hope that you all get to spend some time with your loved ones today. I, for one, am excited that I finally get to spend some quality time with Fallout 4!
> 
> Thanks for reading, kudoing, and commenting!


	3. Chapter 3

III

“Will Graham.”

Hot breath in his face, the sound of a voice, low and insistent—

“Wake up, Will Graham.”

Dressed in his heavy black cloak and leather armor, Hannibal leaned over the Vault-dweller’s curled form with his hands splayed on his knees. His lips spread in a smile when he saw the newcomer’s eyes open, and his grin split to reveal a row of sharp teeth as he watched a spark of fear flash in Will’s eyes. The boy floundered in confusion for a moment as he regarded his unfamiliar surroundings, his entire body seizing to awareness, before the pieces of last night began to reassemble. 

He was in Hannibal’s tent, at Hannibal’s camp, and Hannibal wanted to eat him. The thought caused an animal burst of fear to race through Will’s muscles and he jerked upright. Much to his surprise, he was tangled up in the oily, heavy fur of some beast. A sticky feeling of nausea filled his belly when he realized that Hannibal must have covered him with a blanket at some point during the night. He couldn’t remember waking when the man had laid the fur on him; apparently the fear of ending up in the morning’s breakfast pot had not kept him from a sound night’s sleep. Will bit the inside of his cheek in frustration at both his own laxness and the strange contradictions of Hannibal’s actions. The tenderness of the soft fur stood in sharp contrast to the ache that currently pulsed in his face from when Hannibal had thrown him to the ground. The small act of affection sat strangely with him, left an odd weight in his belly; like an unwanted guest, he circled it warily, offered it a place to sit in his gut but didn’t offer it attention. His brain was scrambling to panicked awareness too quickly for him to pick apart the act.

Above him, Hannibal blinked. Like yesterday, his nostrils flared minutely as if he could smell the odor of his fear and anxiety. “Come face the day, Will Graham. I would like for us to go walking this morning.” 

_Walking_. It sounded innocent enough, he supposed; Will reasoned to himself that if Hannibal wanted to kill him, he’d do it in front of the camp so that his ravenous audience could see rather than sneak him away…

…unless he was looking to keep the mess of the butchering away from their living space. Will shivered minutely, and he was sure that the man had seen it. If Hannibal caught onto his fear, though, he said nothing; the man simply stood there with his steady gaze fixed on him, waiting for a response.

The blanket slid onto the floor as Will stood up; he dared not to comment on it in fear of poking something tender in the man’s pride. He knew that kindness could be weakness for a man like Hannibal; the Overseer’s power in the vault, Will assumed, was not so different than Hannibal’s sway here. Sacrifice was strength; so were barked orders. But tenderness, tenderness was _softness_ , an exposed and pink belly. The blanket had been generosity, and he dared to view it as a good sign. 

“Where are we walking to?” Will asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I thought we would journey out to the flatlands in search of food.” Hannibal smirked. “Does the thought of going hunting relieve you? It means that you are safe for another day—if we catch something.” He laughed, grating and loud, and then ducked out of the tent before Will could reply. 

A few minutes later, he returned with a bowl in one hand and some garments draped over his arm. He eyed Will’s Vault jumpsuit distastefully as he handed him his breakfast, his cold gaze roaming over the electric blue and yellow fabric critically. “I must insist that you change before we leave,” he said in a clipped tone. “That suit is garish, and I would prefer if we weren’t visible to every creature in the wasteland. If these clothes do not fit you,” he lifted his arm to show Will the plain new garments, “then I will find another set. You may keep whichever ones fit you. In fact, I insist that you do.” 

Will glanced down at his jumpsuit. Fair enough, he supposed, so long as that was all Hannibal took from him; he hadn’t seen his Pip-boy or rucksack since Matthew had knocked him unconscious. “What did you do with my other belongings?”

“Pardon?”

“My Pip-boy. My rifle.” 

“They’re safe, I can assure you.”

Will hesitated for a moment, torn between irritation and mollification. Softly, so as not to seem demanding, he asked, “May I have them back?”

Hannibal’s stare turned cold. “Do you not trust my ability to protect you?”

“No,” Will replied meekly, a little frightened now by the man’s glacial tone, “I just want to feel helpful.”

Hannibal thought for a moment, his eyes searching for any indication of dishonesty from the other. Will felt penetrated by his stare, as if the displeasure in his eyes was finding its way into every pore on his skin, burrowing deep and cold. Then, Hannibal turned back to the tent flap and offered a short reply. “Very well. Eat, dress, and I will fetch your things.”

Will scarfed down his breakfast—a warm porridge with some sort of fruit mixed in—, relishing the warmth of the meal after days of cold, canned food. He then regarded his new clothes, which Hannibal had set down on his bed. His new outfit was a pair of chocolate brown breeches made of a coarse, sack-like material and a beige shirt that was haunted by the stitch-line ghosts of mended tears. It was similar to the ensemble that Matthew had been wearing, Will noticed, and was sure to camouflage well against the shrubbery of the landscape. He felt a little bite of sentimentality as he unzipped his jumpsuit, and strangely could not resist holding it up to his nose after he peeled it off; he swallowed down disappointment when he found that no trace of the Vault’s chemical bouquet remained in the fabric. He tucked it into the corner of the tent, hoping that Hannibal wouldn’t discard of it. 

His new clothes felt strange, scratchy and heavy. He was busy trying to stuff his pants into his boots when Hannibal came back, the Pip-boy clutched in one hand and the rifle slung over his shoulder. “Much better,” he said in approval as he regarded Will’s new outfit. “Now you look like one of us, and the Yao Guai won’t mistake you for a chew toy. Come—it’s time to head out.” 

As the pair left the camp, various individuals greeted their leader, wished him good hunting and sure aim. They did not acknowledge the man trialing behind him, though they certainly saw him. Later, when Hannibal’s figure disappeared into the scrub, they would gossip about what it meant. Their eyes would roll from Anthony to the cooking pot and back again, and some would shake their heads in grave disappointment at the prospect of losing another meal. 

Hannibal was an admirable leader, they would whisper, but he sure had a soft spot for these mop-haired boys.

They wandered away from the camp, out to the flatlands where sharp grasses bristled. Crows laughed at them as they passed, and occasionally the bark of gunfire rattled in the distance where dark silhouettes skirmished and bled. Hannibal’s keen eyes seemed to miss nothing as they scanned the horizon; the man constantly adjusted their path to avoid the teeth and poisons of the various mutated beasts and the wrath of drug-addled raiders. Occasionally he would point to various animals and plants and recite their names to Will as if he were teaching a child, slowly and clearly. Will tried to muster a lick of frustration at this juvenile lesson, but was truthfully grateful that he would not have to ask Hannibal such stupid questions; he could not fathom ever mustering the courage to ask him what the strange purple fruits dangling from the trees were, or the two-headed deer that paced through the skeletons of shrubs. 

Names were the only words exchanged between them until Hannibal suddenly said, “Tell me about your upbringing.” 

Will knew that his upbringing was neither unusual nor exciting; if asked, he might even say that it had been dull. If Hannibal wanted him to sing for his supper, as Anthony had said, then he had nothing to sing of. 

“Well,” he began, reaching far back into the wells of his memories in search of a story worth telling, “Growing up in a Vault isn’t very exciting, I guess. It’s a closed system—no new people, no new experiences. That’s part of why I left. After my dad died, everything just seemed stale.” He paused, figuring that Hannibal would comment. The man’s eyes trailed elsewhere, though, and he only glanced at Will when the silence grew long.

“In the Vault, you’re just constantly waiting for the next milestone. You’re five, you start school. You’re ten, you get a Pip-boy. Then you take your G.O.A.T. and finish school and you start your adult life. You enter the slog you’re expected to enjoy for the next sixty years. You marry one of the girls you grew up with, and neither one of you probably like each other that much. You’re expected to have kids, and ostracized if you don’t. You might get permission from the Overseer to go the surface to trade depending on what your score on your G.O.A.T., but if you ask he’ll try to dissuade you by reminding you of all the people who’ve died going up there. And the worst part is that he’s right.”

A very curious expression crossed Hannibal’s face, one that Will found indecipherable; Hannibal’s brows knit together, and his lips opened and closed once as though he were about to speak. After a moment of silence, slowly the man said, “Tell me about how you left. _Why_ you left.” 

Something about the man’s tone prompted a shiver to run down Will’s spine. He couldn’t see where Hannibal was taking this conversation, but he wasn’t about to protest his questions. “Well, I was a mechanic. I had rounds I had to do, different systems and generators I had to monitor. I checked off boxes when they were working, and added new parts when they weren’t. There weren’t any challenges. Vault-tec engineered that stuff to last, and it certainly did. I wasn’t even allowed to tinker, because I hadn’t been assigned to be an engineer. I just fixed things that never needed fixing. It was boring and tedious. I could handle it when my dad was alive, but after he died it just seemed…hollow.

“I had heard of a few people who had left for good when I was a kid. Apparently the Overseer can do all he can to dissuade you, but he can’t say no if you want to go. So I started thinking about it. Like I said, a few people had permission to go to the surface to trade. One of my father’s friends was one of them—his name was Jonah. I asked him to start helping me get ready to leave. He wasn’t comfortable with it, but he did it. Taught me how to shoot better, how to mend wounds, basic survival stuff. He told me where I should go if I wanted to try and find a steady job. When I felt ready, I went to the Overseer and asked for permission to leave.

“He tried to get me to stay. He reminded me that my dad died on the surface, that a lot of other people died up there too. I told him I didn’t care. I think something about me scared him; he let me go without too much carrying on. Maybe he saw that his words really didn’t scare me.” Will was overcome with a great tiredness suddenly, an exhaustion of the spirit. It was distinctly similar to the strange hollowness he had felt that day, standing in the Overseer’s office. Resignation, maybe, he thought. Something akin to the hot stickiness of feeling suicidal, something just a hair’s breadth away from the great and insurmountable urge to die. Still, Hannibal’s gaze was steady. It was neither cold nor warm; it was simply level. 

“Jonah saw me off,” Will continued, “And I was out for a few days before your guy found me. And here I am.” 

A strange smile stretched over Hannibal’s face; it was not a grin of joy or mirth, but of knowing, of truths to be shared. Though not joyful, the twist of his mouth was not joyless. Dark delight was painted into the small folds on his lips; a shadow fell over his face, the same one that we wore just last night as he howled and sneered before the camp. Will sensed that he was in for a lecture when Hannibal opened his mouth. 

“Do you know what the Vaults were for, Will? What their true purpose was?”

There was a strange coolness to Hannibal’s voice. “They were to help save humanity in the event of nuclear war.” A rehearsed response, a practiced line. It had been taught to him by his teachers in the Vault.

“No, that wasn’t it. That was just how they advertised.” Something cold settled in Will’s gut, and Hannibal’s voice hardened to a priest’s sternness. “They were closed systems in which human experiments could be conducted. Every person who lined up to live in a Vault—every man, woman, and child—they were no better than pigs being brought to the butcher’s block. Your Overseer knew this, as did all of his predecessors. I suspect that man who helped you leave did too.”

“I never was experimented on. No one ever did anything to me.” Panic leaked into his voice; he did not want to believe Hannibal’s words, and they slipped and skittered through his skull as though they were greased.

“But you _were_ ,” Hannibal insisted. “Your Vault should have opened long ago. None of you should be left in there; if it were a normal Vault, you would have been born out in the Wasteland if your ancestors had survived. I have my guesses as to what your experiment was,” he continued. “If it was what I think, then it was relatively benign, and you should count yourself as lucky.” 

Will shivered. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to ask this question. “What do you think it was?”

Something caught Hannibal’s eye in the distance; gently, he steered the other towards a copse of trees, frowning when Will tensed from the mere touch of his hand on his shoulder. “I suspect, based on the fact that you were allowed to leave, that they were doing a preference study, in a way. They wanted to see if a society could remain in the Vault– _would_ remain in the Vault. It’s a behavior study. How many people would voluntarily leave? You just gave them another data point, Will. Like I said, it’s tame compared to others I have heard of. You weren’t even kept there against your will. Others…well, I won’t scare you. I imagine that this is a lot to digest. Surely you always thought of the Vaults as something just, even if you found them bland.” 

Nausea pooled in Will’s stomach. His skin felt clammy as he sorted through what Hannibal had told him. Letting his imagination run amok, he thought of what might have happened to him if he had been born in another vault, another chrome world. Phantom kisses of pain tickled his skin as if to remind him to be grateful for his breath and blood, even if Hannibal would soon devour it all. 

Suddenly Hannibal stopped them, throwing an arm across Will’s chest to keep him from moving. “Look, Will Graham.” His cloak fell across his arm like a raven’s wing as he pointed to something in the skeletal trees. In the distance, a two-headed doe ran her tongues along the spotted back of her child. “You will hear of worse things than the Vault’s experiments in the Wasteland, Will Graham. You will hear of all of the horrors of this world and the world that came before it. But you must not dwell on them—I can see you living a dozen lives that you never will, I can see them flashing through your eyes. You must accept the darkness of this world as you accept the scrape of sand in your shoes, because then you will see that life, life is precious. There is beauty in both life and death, but more so in survival, the bridge between them. Look at those deer—they’re hideous. They’re a crime against Darwin. They look like something that would leap from a child’s nightmare. But they breathe, Will Graham, they survive. Disfigured as they are, weighed down by their heads and extra legs, they survive, they reproduce, they continue. There’s beauty in that.” Hannibal gazed at the prey animals as they wandered down a shallow hill. “We will eat them someday, and they will fuel our own survival. Just as you might, Will.” His gaze rolled to stare at the man. A spasm of terror raced up Will’s spine.

“But I don’t wish to talk of that now,” Hannibal said. “I haven’t seen food for us to eat, so I would like to suggest that we detour to one of the nearby ponds. I apologize, but you reek. You need to bathe.”

Stunned, Will simply nodded. He followed Hannibal as the man led them out of little grove and back in the direction they came from.

“I suppose I owe you some information as well,” Hannibal said as they picked their way down a craggy slope. “You told me about your upbringing, so it’s only fair that I tell you about mine.” He didn’t look at Will as he spoke. Something raw and hurt flickered in his steely gaze. “But unfortunately you must earn that information. I do not give up my secrets so easily.” Lengthening his stride, Hannibal moved so that he was always a step ahead of Will. Will knew better than to open his mouth at this moment. Hannibal, it seemed, had just touched something sore within himself. It was easy now to shake of his own fear at what Hannibal had told him to begin to pick apart the man’s mood.

As one checks beneath a bandage to see if a wound still bled, Hannibal had lifted open a door at the bottom of his mind to see if the contents were yet pleasing. Will, who despite never dealing well with people always keenly understood them, knew that Hannibal was not angry with him; the cold bluntness of his words was not meant to ward the Vault-dweller away. Rather, the leader, normally so composed, normally so calm, was frustrated with himself. Will knew that Hannibal had been ready to trade stories in that moment; like he said, it was fair. But it seemed the nerve endings of Hannibal’s past were still frayed, despite years of trying to coat the memories in something meant to bind them together and make them sweeter. 

Will’s father would get much the same way, angry and bitter over things that had happened long ago. Despaired, he would start to drink, and their night would be spent in silence; Will would read and try to count how many times he heard the whiskey bottle open and close. He allowed Hannibal his silence because that was how he had always dealt with problems. 

He didn’t know how else to solve them. He knew, too, that nothing he said or did would placate the man, who looked in this moment very much luck the pacing tigers he had seen holotapes of. 

They didn’t speak again until they arrived at a tiny pond, no more than a puddle in the great expanse of the irradiated landscape. Hannibal did a quick loop around the water, presumably searching for any possible threats, and then began to unbuckle his many layers. 

His sorrow forgotten, he turned to Will. “If you ever need to bathe or swim, you should try to find small bodies of water, Will Graham.” The heavy black cloak was neatly folded and placed on the ground; Hannibal’s rifle and machete were gently laid atop it, their handles pointed towards the water for easy access. “The worst you might find is a Bloatfly or two. But the lakes are ruled by Mirelurks—giant, mutated crabs—and they are never keen to have company. They do, however, make for a delicious meal.” Hannibal grinned, bending to unlace his boots. Will returned the look, pleased yet wary to see that the man had shaken off his sour mood. Nervously, then, he snuck a glance at the green water.

“How deep is that?”

“Not terribly deep. Eight or ten feet, perhaps. Why?” 

A pink blush crept up Will’s neck. “I, uh, can’t swim.” 

Hannibal nodded and regarded the pond. He was naked except for his pants; Will was surprised by how filled out the man was, and momentarily looked away from the water to trace the planes of Hannibal’s muscles with his eyes. After a moment, the man shrugged and began to work on the fastening of his pants. “Well, you need a bath. Try it—I’ll be right there if you start to drown. Kick your feet slowly to stay afloat, and use your arms to move.” He shucked his pants off, and Will looked away when he caught sight of the other’s manhood. Hannibal had no qualms about being bare, but Will felt as nervous as a freshman in the locker room showers. 

Slowly, Will began to undress, focusing on the buttons on his pants as opposed to Hannibal’s naked body as he waded into the pond. He didn’t know why he was drawn to the ripple of the other’s back and chose to blame his sheltered Vault upbringing; human bodies were as mysterious to him as the two-headed deer that had stalked through the trees, having been hidden so long under Vault-tec issue jumpsuits. He stared briefly at his own body when he was nude, eyeing the bristle of his dark pubic hair, the trail it made up to his belly, the flat curve of his stomach and the spread of his ribs. Then, suddenly, he was overcome by terrible shyness, and he clumsily splashed into the water until he was in up to his ribs. His rifle and Pip-boy glowed atop his pile of clothing.

Hannibal, treading water at the center of the pond, watched Will with a wry smile. “Come, Will. It’s not as hard as you think.” 

Slowly Will walked forward until the water began to lap at his neck. Then, he lifted his feet and began to slowly paddle with his hands. For a moment, the murky water swallowed him, and he panicked before he began to frantically kick his feet. His head popped back above the surface and he gasped loudly, clutching at the air. A few feet away, Hannibal grinned. 

“There you go,” the cannibal said. “Now you know how to swim.” 

“I feel like I swallowed pond water,” Will groaned, pushing his wet curls from his eyes. Hannibal chuckled and then ducked beneath the surface to wet his own hair. Will eyed the little ring of bubbles that rose from where the other had submerged. 

He had to admit, the water felt good, warmed by the sun yet refreshingly cool compared to the heat that rose from the dirt fields. It felt nice to wipe the grime and sweat from his skin and watch it spread out into the water in little streaks. 

Hannibal bathed himself meticulously, sluicing the water from his skin the flat of his hand and running his fingers through his hair to tease out the tangles. All the while, Will’s eyes wandered to avoid staring too long at the man, though he did occasionally sneak glances at the other’s muscles, shining with wetness. When at last shame welled up in his stomach and began to flood into his throat, he turned away to stare at the horizon.

Hannibal was less sly with his glances; he watched the other unabashedly, his eyes roaming over every curve of his body. Will was pale, dusted lightly with dark hair. His body was unmarked by the trials of wild living; an untouched canvas, Hannibal thought, a new surface to brush with oils and acrylics. He watched as Will paddled around cautiously with a soft smile on his face, and instinctively began to move to catch him any time his head dipped beneath the surface of the pond. 

After a while, Hannibal waded out of the water and sat down on the rocky edge of the pond so that the sun could dry his skin. Will followed suit and, though he wanted to dress immediately, he followed Hannibal’s lead and sat a few feet away from the other with his knees drawn up against his chest. He couldn’t stop shifting his legs, uncomfortable as he was by being bare before the other. He imagined that immediately dressing would prompt the other to tease him for his prudishness. 

Hannibal plucked Will’s Pip-boy from his pile of clothing and turned it over in his hands, tracing over the surface with his fingers. The device buzzed as Hannibal began to press its buttons, his eyes darting over the features on each screen. Will watched him explore the device, amused by the attention with which Hannibal pored over it with. 

“I’ve never used one of these,” Hannibal admitted after a minute, lifting the Pip-boy so that he could see how it would fit on his wrist. 

“They’re useful.” Will cautiously scooted closer so that he could fasten it to Hannibal’s arm, though he kept some space between him and other; the thought of their thighs brushing together made a low heat rise in his stomach. “It has a radio and a map, and it can tell you about your health. Look—“ He clicked over a few screens until the Vault Boy logo grinned out at them. “Your radiation levels are high.” 

“How does it work?” Hannibal asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it’s powered by an atomic battery.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal spent another minute clicking through all of the screens before he undid the latch and handed the device back to Will, who fastened it back onto his own wrist. “I’ve never been interested in the machines that the old world left behind. I’m far more interested in the other things that the people made.”

“Like the buildings?”

“The buildings, yes. But more so the art. No one makes art in the wasteland anymore, Will Graham. It’s a travesty.” 

No one made art in the vaults either, Will thought. Children drew, of course, and some people kept at it as a hobby, but he had never heard of anyone being assigned to an artistic job after taking the G.O.A.T. He was about to make that comment to Hannibal when the man tensed suddenly, the muscles of back bunching in surprise. Suddenly he hissed, “Ssh. Lie down.” Hannibal flipped onto his belly and wiggled forward until he could reach his rifle. Weapon in hand, he crawled up the bank of the pond, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Something groaned strangely in the distance. Will was tempted to look but feared what he might see staggering towards them. Instead he lie down flat on his back and kept his gaze trained at the clouds that milled through the sky, listening to the strange noises and the steady pattern of Hannibal’s breath. 

A wet squelch made him shiver. Very softly, the lever of the rifle clicked as Hannibal slid it over. Then suddenly his breath caught and paused and the great blast of his rifle echoed throughout the landscape; the thing groaned again, the sound gurgling and raw, and Will hoped that Hannibal’s bullet hit home.

A beat of silence hung between them. Then, with a laugh, Hannibal said, “Well, Will Graham, nothing bothers us when we’re clothed and armed and ready for a fight, but the minute we strip down, the wasteland looks for blood. Come—look at what I killed.” Will flipped over and watched Hannibal scramble up to survey his kill, the muscles of his legs flexing. He picked up his pants before joining the other, pulling them back over his hips and fastening them shut as he walked.

The sight that greeted Will when he joined Hannibal was enough to make his stomach turn. A pool of red oozed out from a hole in the creatures head, sating the thirsty dirt and staining the grass with ruby droplets. The blood was not what horrified him though; instead, it was the creature itself, pink and wrinkled and laced with bulging blue veins. The beast had the face of a man, but three tongues lolled from its gaping mouth, and its eyes were sunk into its head, barely visible behind rolls of skin. The torso was sculpted yet armless; indeed, it looked like someone had detached the beast’s arms and sewed them to his hips, for three sets of arms spread from its body and served by legs, capped by splayed hands. Was this what the radiation had wrought?

“A Centaur,” Hannibal said triumphantly. Will was too horrified by the cooling corpse to be amused by the fact that the man, despite being naked, was standing over the corpse with grin of great pride on his face. “The Super Mutants keep them as pets sometimes. They’re the products of the same virus that made them.” 

“Virus?” Will stammered. 

Hannibal cast him a sympathetic look and pointed at the Centaur. “Humans did that. Humans also made the green brutes you’ll see wandering around sometimes. They’re the products of a virus that the government was experimenting with. They’re mutated beasts who won’t hesitate to kill you, who don’t understand the concept of mercy.” His voice was rising, becoming hot with a smoldering rage. A switch had been flipped in the man, and anger raced through his veins, darkening his voice, hardening his eyes. “If you cross them, they will kill you. If you own something they want, they will kill you. If you breathe and they _hear_ it, Will Graham, _they will kill you_.”

The scent of blood hung heavy in the air. Will imagined that it was a fitting backdrop to whatever memories were looping through Hannibal’s head. The man had turned on him and loomed over him, tall and proud, his entire body alight and shaking with a long-buried rage. Will inhaled shakily and searched for his voice, which had fled from Hannibal’s frenzy. 

“They took someone from you.” Every word trembled in fear of Hannibal’s response. He braced himself for pain.

The man’s lips lifted in a snarl, but he didn’t reply. Disgusted by his kill suddenly, he whirled around and stalked back to their clothes, then roughly began to pull his layers back on. When he was dressed, he turned his steely gaze back on Will. “Remember,” he said, his voice hard, “You could have stayed in the Vault and enjoyed a life of safety. Remember it, Will Graham. I pray that you come to regret your choice. There is nothing out here for you but blood.” 

“And my future,” Will argued. Though frightened, he refused to let Hannibal’s words mollify him. The other’s anger only prompted his own. “I’m going to Baltimore if it kills.” 

“Blood and Baltimore.” Hannibal’s tone softened. A strange expression crossed his face at the mention f the city that Will could not quite decipher; it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. They began the trek back to the camp, their guns slung over their shoulders and the fringes of their hair feathering as it dried. Few words were exchanged between them; they were content to mull over their thoughts. 

In Hannibal’s mind, a piece was nudged forward on the chess board of his survival. He thought of Baltimore, and he thought of Will Graham, and he thought of bargains to be made and peace to be kept. Perhaps the wasteland could offer Will more than blood.

And perhaps Will Graham might offer him more than a meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that wait! The semester got busy, and then break came and my writing muse was gone. Not to mention Fallout 4 sort of took over my life. I hope this chapter makes up for the long hiatus! This story definitely isn't going anywhere, but the updates might be a little slower for it as my priority is The Stygian Court. We'll see! I've been trying to alternate which fic I update, so let's see if I can continue that this semester. 
> 
> If you ever have any questions about Fallout lore/things I'm describing, go ahead and ask! The Fallout Wiki is really, really good as well. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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